


Wild, Wild Eyes

by thewhalesaid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Human, Fight Clubs, M/M, Tumblr Memes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewhalesaid/pseuds/thewhalesaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Prompt : Dean meets Castiel by chance at an art showing after accidentally knocking over someone’s painting. Their romance springs from there, leading Cas to learn about Dean’s secret life - the underground fight clubs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, forever ago, I saw [this](http://scaredycas.tumblr.com/post/32569517167/aumeme-dean-meets-castiel-by-chance-at-an-art) meme on tumblr, and called dibs. This is the beginning of the aftermath.
> 
> Hats off to scaredycas.tumblr.com for allowing me to steal this prompt. I will now take a shot in your honour.

It's dark and noisy.  
  
Someone shouts, there's a grunt, and his fist connects with a wall of muscle. A cheer. Someone whistles, another swears. More hits, more grunting, someone spits in his face.  
  
He hears a growl, and doesn't know if it's from his mouth, or the opponent, anymore.  
  
Only there's no opponent, not really. One turns into three turns into five turns into none.  
  
 _You don't have to take care of me, you're not my dad. He didn't even do this much._  
  
He keeps hitting, no matter how many times the numbers change. No matter how much the sound dulls and the noises stop, he doesn't stop hitting. Hits until he stops locking eyes, until glimpses are gone; no, no more flashes of blue and green, of brown, grey, of fear and hate and love, the last shreds of humanity as he keeps at it, keeps getting hit, and then it's done.  
  
Hits until there's nothing left in his head, and then some.  
  
It's still dark, but not as loud.

* * *

His leg hurts.  
  
If Dean were to be completely honest, he'd actually point out that it's not his leg that hurts, it's his hip -- it squeaks with even the slightest prospect of movement, and the waistband of his jeans, albeit loose and fitting, is digging in painfully where his skin is painted a purple so dark, it's almost black. It is black, he'd argue, dead near the center, where a knee had collided against it.  
  
But that, of course, would require admitting that his flesh is blue.  
  
And Dean doesn't admit anything that isn't obvious beneath the layer of flannel and his leather jacket, beneath the crude surrounding of _morning_ that taints his skin, that sinks into his pores so that, no matter how many times he pools water into the cups of his hands, splashes it onto his face, he just can't feel clean. Hell, if it's not very, very surface-leveled, there's no chance whatsoever of Dean Winchester admitting to _anything_ \-- and he knows it.  
  
Doesn't change the fact that his leg hurts. At this point, it's the sheer will of Dean's stubbornness that is forcing him to walk through, shoulders square, hips even, refusing to let his step tumble even the slightest -- he'll be damned if he ever walks around San Francisco, California, with a limp. No matter how tightly it means his jaw is shut, muscles twitching, just barely, with every step.  
  
If he stops at all, Dean tells himself, it's for the coffee. It's for a beverage, it's to sit back and appreciate the city, it's to watch a dog take a leak against a denim-makeshift flowerpot. It's not because of his leg, and it's certainly not because of the dull ache in the back of his jaw, from clenching shut.  
  
Actually, that last part is the truth: Dean's so used to the action, he doesn't even recognize that ache anymore. So he can't possibly be stopping his stroll across town ( _get up and walk somewhere,_ his brain had spit at him this morning, _walk around, it's not like you're **hurt** or anything_ ) for anything less than the aforementioned excuses. Take your pick.  
  
Going to the coffeeshop should've been the obvious answer. He knows that Ash would've made him something extra strong, and probably thrown a pastry on the house -- but going to the coffeeshop means being surveyed under the all-knowing looks of Pamela, the quirky owner who'll give palm readings between orders of espresso, and he can't have that. Not when he's not-limping like this. Dean blames his inane hatred of Starbucks and anything related for the fact that he walks by two shops in a span of three blocks.  
  
The only reason he stops in the gallery, in the first place, is because there's a three-dimensional diorama of sorts on the display window, that makes him do a double-take, stop, step back, and walk by it again.  
  
He frowns, taking a step closer to the window, and tries to make sense of it in his mind -- that's when he catches sight of a table, beside the display wall. A table with cookies, and what looks like a coffee machine.  
  
The bench-like seat on the other side has absolutely nothing to do with his decision to walk in.  
  
" That display gets everyone. "  
  
The sample-size cup of coffee is already touching his lips when the voice speaks, a low noise, one that brings Dean back to summers in Kansas, and the wheels of a pick up truck sliding over gravel. He smells Mary's apple pie and the spice of her chai tea -- a necessity for cooking, she'd protest -- before he remembers where he's at, and gulps down the sample cup.  
  
" 'Scuse you ?" he asks, refilling it, with absolutely no regard for the man that's approached him, with the collar of his button up slightly askew from under the neckline of a wool sweater. He'd make a comment in his head, how it's such a hipster outfit, scoff at the entire ensemble, if it didn't look so completely natural on the man, as he regards Dean with a slight frown on his face.  
  
Dean doesn't care -- finishes the cup of coffee and pours a third gulp-full.  
  
" The display, outside. Most people double-back for it. The mind has a way of misinterpreting the eyes. "  
  
Unconsciously, Dean's eyes flicker back to the piece, or, where it would be, if it weren't on the other side of display panel. He shrugs, emptying his cup once again, and speaks.  
  
" I guess. I'm not really into all this art stuff -- " he starts, shrugging again before he can start rambling about his reasons against buying his own cup of coffee. The bench is looking more and more appealing, but Dean'll be honest; he doesn't quite know how one is supposed to sit and stare at things, in an art gallery.  
  
The man looks like he's about to say something, but Dean just tosses the empty, paper cup into the trash bin, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. " Alright, well, uh. Thanks for the lesson, " he says, because the man looks like he's about to pull out a power point presentation, complete with a laser pointer, about art -- judging by the way his eyes light up and he prepares himself to speak. His shoulders slump a little, a line of disappointment worrying itself between the frown and stoic expression lining his face. So Dean gives him half a grin, and takes a business card, advertising the gallery -- just to get the poor guy to look a little less put out.  
  
Dean doesn't suspect most people walk into the small galleries, lining Geary Street.  
  
He suspects, even more so, that it's because the coffee sucks.

* * *

Three days later, he's wobbling so hard, he thinks his jaw might be locked in its position, force of clenching his teeth down in effort not to limp. Or wince.  
  
It's when his mouth hurts too much to properly bite into the ciabatta-bun of a double bacon cheeseburger that Dean admits defeat ( as much as he can, that is ) and buys himself three slabs of icy hot. In his own stubbornness, Dean refuses to put them on until he gets to his apartment, because nothing can hurt that bad.  
  
At least, that's until a kid runs by him on the 22, and Dean's hip hits smack against an woman's seat.  
  
She eyes his hiss of pain with a wary gaze, from behind a pair of sunglasses that make her look like an extra on A Bug's Life, and Dean has to bite down on his tongue to keep his eyes from watering.  
  
He doesn't realize his tongue is bleeding until he gets off said bus, his mouth too used to the taste, by now.  
  
The limp is obvious, much to his dismay, with his CVS shopping back smacking against the back of his thigh at every step, and even Dean can't stop the mantra of, 'sonofabitch', that plays through his head, recycling its way through song lyrics and his reminder to buy milk. He says it out loud, when he realizes his fist is clenched, and his nails, albeit short, are being pressed hard enough to cut skin.  
  
He makes it to the apartment located above the used bookstore, sticks three sheets of icy hot onto his hip, and falls asleep, face-down onto the couch.

* * *

He doesn't leave the apartment all weekend, and, come Sunday afternoon, Dean's getting restless. He's never been one for sitting still, or so he likes to think. In reality, his brain reminds him, if he's drumming his fingers on every surface imaginable, getting up to walk around the kitchen, or bedroom, or bathroom, well. It's because he can actually operate his body enough to move, with this pent up energy that hasn't been released.  
  
His fist tightens considerably, and his shoulder muscles draw his arm back, body twisting in his position, ready to punch. He wants to swing his weight forward and let the force hit through his elbow -- but to what ? There's nothing to connect with, nothing to hit back.  
  
Dean realizes he's standing in the middle of his living room, fist raised, feet apart, and immediately drops the offensive stance, physically.  
  
Mentally, is a different matter entirely.

* * *

Sam comes by, that afternoon, and Dean is still as antsy as the half hour prior. He tries not to let Sam see it, though, seeing as it's the younger male's fault he's like this -- Dean's brother had called, saying he was going to be visiting, and if there's one thing that Dean hates, more than this itch-you-can't-scratch feeling of restlessness, it's the curious looks, and worried side-glances, Sam gives him when he notices that Dean's limping through bruises.  
  
He swallows back the bite of idleness, simply because Sammy wouldn't want the alternative. So much, in fact, that he'd ignored his body's urge of action the night before, and stayed at home, locked in his room.  
  
Dean pretends the lock on the door was a way to keep something out, instead of forcing himself to stay in.  
  
It leads, however, to Dean running towards Sam, the moment his younger brother steps through the now-unlocked door ( Dean had attempted to go on a run earlier, making it about three blocks down before realizing he was going to start limping again if he continued ).  
  
" Woah, happy to see me there ?" Sam asks, eyebrow raising as Dean steps by him.  
  
" Shut up. Toss your stuff on the couch, " the elder brother adds, " We're getting out of here. "  
  
" Oh ?"  
  
Dean nods. " What, you said you wanted to do some girly shit around the city -- I'm saying let's go now. Before I change my mind. "  
  
Sam's eyebrow stays raised, giving Dean a slightly hesitant look, before he sets his pack, and two grocery bags, down near the door.  
  
" None of that's gonna rot and stink up my place, is it ?" Dean asks, eyeing the nondescript food warily. Sam rolls his eyes, getting up to slide off his scarf and toss it in the mix.  
  
" It's just stuff from the Farmer's Market -- did you know there was one downtown ? You're fine. "  
  
Dean snorts, already making his way out of the apartment, keys swinging on his finger. He calls out to Sam, forcing his brother to hurry up after him.  
  
" Come on, we can get you some tampax on our way back. "  
  
" Jerk. "  
  
" Bitch. Thus the tampons. "

* * *

Dean refuses to walk around Alamo Square ( " I'm not gonna be left surrounded by teenagers who think wearing flannel is _ironic_ , just 'cause you left me to run around with dogs. " " You're just butthurt because last time, a State student asked you where you bought yours. " ) so they end up downtown once again, and Dean finds himself dragging Sam away from where the Farmer's Market is closing down -- meaning, he's got a steel grip on Sam's forearm, because he'll never admit at having to reach _up_ to grab his bicep, and is forcing them down the street.  
  
" Oh, the trolley !" Sam exclaims, as if he hasn't seen it fifty times, and hitched a ride more than half of those ( Dean would know, he was there for most of them ), which leaves Dean with no other choice but to duck them into the first open building on the street.  
  
The moment he realizes it's an art gallery, Dean's half in the right mind to turn back and slingshot Sam into the middle of the organic merchants, but it's too late. Sam bounds inside, ooo-ing and ahh-ing at the various works which, Dean admits, are pretty cool. The diorama-like one isn't up anymore, which makes him frown slightly, but there's a lot of work that looks three-dimensional, and Dean uses that as his excuse for sitting on the bench, staring across the room at an particular canvas, that takes up about half the wall.  
  
It's interesting; at least, interesting enough to stare at, while Sam inspects the other pieces closer. After a while, however, Dean's curiosity, his itch to move, overpowers the now-dulling ache in his leg, and the man finds himself standing across the room, peering to take a closer look at the painting he'd been observing. He understands, though he'll never admit it, in a brief moment, why Sam's yammering away with the receptionist in the front room of the gallery.  
  
The piece is a mass of gridded lines, impeccably marked squares layered over each other, with almost cut-outs of shapes inside, made to look three dimensional, and Dean figures they're doing their job exactly. He's got his face centimetres away from the canvas, squinting at the lack of tangible layering, when he loses his balance and falls a little too close.  
  
He manage to catch himself himself with his right leg, hissing in pain at the sudden force, his hands already out to steady himself. He's grabbing at the canvas before he can help himself, pushing off instead of forward so he can stumble a few steps back, before he scrambles forward once more as it wiggles from its frame and falls to the ground.  
  
Considering its size, there's not much length for it to travel, but Dean grabs it before it can make a noise. The last thing he needs is to be told this was a masterpiece ( though he'd believe it quicker than seeing that pole-uck character Sam's girlfriend was talking about the other day ) and he's now out a couple hundred thou. Luckily, a quick glance around shows Dean that the coast is clear, and he sighs in relief, carefully attempting to place his hands on either side of the canvas, despite the stretch of its width.  
  
" Can I help you ?"  
  
The voice is low and gravely, a rough sound, yet it's not so much that, as it is the noise in general, that startles Dean. He feels his cheeks flush, just barely, and turns, racking his brain for any way to make this seem less of a blatant ignoring of the Please Do Not Touch the Artwork signs lining the gallery. His eyes fall on the worry lines of a frown, and hands hovering over a stack of books.  
  
The man looks confused, if anything, and he doesn't seem to be making any moves to throw the books at him, so Dean takes his chances and nods a little. " Er. Yes, please. I can't reach both sides … "  
  
The man nods curtly, setting the books down and making his way over. " We're going to have to do this very gingerly, " he states, either ignoring, or oblivious to, the way Dean's eyebrow quirks slightly. But he figures, this man isn't about to yell at him ( yet ), and is offering help -- making fun of using the word _gingerly_ can happen later. When he's, preferably, drinking beer on his couch and talking to Sam.  
  
Not that he's going to be talking to Sam about this man, or what's happening, because he's bound to be met with a disapproving look of some form.  
  
Dean coughs, shaking away his internal categorization of Sam Winchester's Bitchfaces, and steps to the side a little. At two, they're able to lift the canvas and place it back onto the pegs lining the wall without much trouble, for which Dean is grateful. He thanks the man again, taking a few steps back to try and make this as painless as possible, which makes the other regard him with a look of bemusement.  
  
" I'm Castiel, " he introduces, holding a hand out towards Dean, who blinks at it for a moment longer than he should, before stating his own name and taking it. Again, the strangeness of the name itself doesn't go unnoticed, but right now, Dean's mainly grateful for the easy avoidance of the general situation. Meaning, he'd like to take a few more steps, and then some, until he's wandering the streets of San Francisco with Sammy once more -- at least then, if he runs into something, it's probably a street artist who won't do so much as swear at him, which he can handle. The man -- Castiel -- on the other hand, seems not to notice.  
  
" They're quite realistic, " he states instead, " I had to give it a closer inspection myself. "  
  
Dean manages a chuckle, shoving his hands safely into the pockets of his jeans. " I guess I lost my balance there, " he admits, shrugging a little and glancing over his shoulder, trying to spot Sam. Not that it's a particularly difficult thing to do.  
  
" Would you like some coffee again this time ?"  
  
Dean chuckles, unable to bite back the grimace, which makes Castiel chuckle. " I guess that's a no, " is the response, and Dean nods.  
  
" That would be a no. "  
  
" Are you enjoying the exhibit ?"  
  
He nods, managing to get through, " Yeah, uh. This stuff's pretty cool. Realistic seeming, but, heh. I guess that much was obvious, " before he stops himself. Long-winded discussions over _art_ are Sammy's thing -- unless said art happens to be a paint job, Dean's really out of his league here. Thankfully, Castiel doesn't seem to notice, simply nods again in agreement, and is silent for a few beats.  
  
" It's a good exhibit. A good follow-up to the previous one -- the three-dimensional optical illusion you were noticing the other day. "  
  
Briefly, Dean wonders how much he can nod before he can get away from the conversation. He doesn't want to mention that, hey, art isn't really his thing, but at the same time, it's _not_. Luckily for him, Sam manages to poke his head into the room, raising an eyebrow. " Dean ? Hey, I was looking for -- Wow, that's incredible. "  
  
Figures.  
  
He refrains from sighing, and instead shuffles over as his brother approaches the canvas, regarding it with the same awe-struck appreciation Dean had, with a lot less confusion. Just, excited. Dean takes this as his cue that it'll take a while, especially when Sam turns to Castiel, and asks him about the artist. Not exactly wanting to be a part of this conversation, Dean seats himself back down on the bench, and tries not to slouch too much as the two exchange what can only be described as artistic nerdisms. Or something.  
  
" Dean ?"  
  
He's brought back from his reverie by Sam's voice, where his brother is staring at him expectantly. " You ready to go ?" Dean nods, groaning inwardly at the squeak of his hip when he stands, grinning at Sam's frown.  
  
" Step ahead of you, Princess, " he replies, chuckling when Sam gives him a look. " Let's go, I don't trust the biohazard you brought into my place. " He's already making his way out of the room, leaving Sam to bound after him, after thanking the guy, or something. Dean's almost at the door, when he hears the same deep voice call out his name, and both Winchesters pause, turning to where Castiel is making his way in their direction.  
  
" Here, " Castiel says, extending his arm and motioning to Dean, with a pamphlet between his fingers, " Since you seemed to enjoy the exhibits we carry, and I don't believe you remember where that business card went. "  
  
Dean, at least, has the decency to look a little bashful at this, and takes the pamphlet without questions.  
  
" There are a few shows schedule for the future, I helped pick a few of the pieces. I think they might suit you, " Castiel adds, gaze locked on Dean, before he makes a barely-there motion, now addressing the two. " It was a pleasure to meet you both, thank you for stopping by. "  
  
Sam nods, grinning cheerfully at Castiel, while Dean mimics the action with a bit less zest. " Thanks for, uh. That, too, " he adds, motioning over to the back room. He's not oblivious to the twitch of a grin, at the corner of Castiel's mouth. Unfortunately, neither is Sam.  
  
" So, " his brother grins, nudging him with an elbow, " You into art now ?"  
  
" Shut it. " But the pamphlet gets shoved into the pocket of his jeans, regardless. " C'mon, let's go pick up some pizza. "  
  
" I brought you food !"  
  
" No, you brought me _crap_. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm too drunk to be on the internet right now, so please forgive anything wrong with this first chapter.
> 
> It should be noted that the gallery is a real one, in San Francisco, on Geary Street. The 3-D artwork Dean's noticing at the end belongs to another gallery, but I can't remember its name, or the artist for either, sorry. They were both really cool, though -- my words don't do them justice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Iosef. If I hadn't been forced to watch you and Cute Coffee Boy flirt in a painfully awkward-yet-obvious manner for over an hour, this chapter + the next would've taken a lot longer to write.

Dean manages to leave the gallery twice more by himself. The first time, he brands the other man with the nickname, 'Cas', momentarily doubting his decision to when it produces a frown and mild confusion. The second time, the nickname seems to be met with no hostility, so Dean decides it stays. The third time, he comes in with his hands in his pockets, grins crookedly, discusses a newer, less-interesting showcase of flower paintings with Cas, then announces that he's going to get coffee from some place that doesn't taste like dirt.  He doesn't apologize, Castiel chuckles, and he invites the other man to come along.  When Dean gets his drink, he's careful to pull money out of his jeans pocket, instead of fiddling through a wallet, and, thankfully keeps his left hand away from sight.  
  
His palm is curled awkwardly, fingers moving slowly, because laying his hand flat hurts too much.

* * *

  
They talk, in a way that makes it blatantly obvious this isn't anything more than two guys escaping horribly bitter coffee. Dean learns that Castiel's just recently moved to San Francisco to visit his sister, Anna, who got him the job at the gallery in the first place. Anna's an artist, who mainly dabbles in ceramics and runs a studio program in the outskirts of the Design District. He prefers tea to coffee, but argues that he drinks enough of it to make up for the blasphemous fact in the first place. He has a degree in theoretical something, Dean manages to catch, but the conversation gets switched away from schooling fast enough. Dean's grateful enough for the conversation change, so he doesn't press.  
  
He tells Castiel about Sammy, and how his brother goes to school in Palo Alto, so he acts like coming up to visit Dean is a vacation. Because of this, Dean makes it a point not to bring him to any of the regular tourist spots, and Sam has yet to visit Pier 39, or even the Bridge Vista Point -- Castiel chuckles at this, so Dean figures it's okay.  
They stray away from anything outside of small talk conversations, as they have the past three times, and Dean's more than okay with this. Cas realizes his break is almost over, Dean gives him a nod in parting, and they head off in different directions.

* * *

  
The fourth time, it's Sam and his girlfriend Jessica who are at the gallery, and come back to Dean's apartment.  
His hand doesn't hurt so much anymore, but he's keeping it lightly curled on the table next to his book, where Dean's pen is idly tracing over a nineteenth century, three-speed transmission diagram. He glances up when the door opens, Jess and Sam filing through, idly chattering about something -- Sam's holding another bag of groceries, so Dean makes a face, before he's pulled into a side hug from Jess.

" Get up, lazy, " she jokes, " I haven't seen in you in forever, and now you won't even give me a proper hug ?"  
Dean would admit to rolling his eyes, if that wasn't total Sam territory. Instead, he gets up, muttering, " It's only been three weeks, " before hugging Jess tightly as Sam heads into the kitchen. " Then again, " he adds with a grin, " I guess three weeks away from the _true_ love of your life can seem like forever --"

" I can hear you !" Sam shouts from the kitchen, and Dean laughs, shelling back to ruffle her hair. This time, she definitely rolls her eyes, pushing him playfully.

" Trust me, you're definitely not the Winchester I'd pick, " Jess jokes, laughing through Dean's psuedo-hurt look. Sam exits the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed in amusement, and he sticks his tongue out at this.

" That's another point for me, " he calls out, making Dean snort.

" Yeah, that gives you, what, five points out of my couple thousand ? Million ? You're way out of your league. "

" That's bullshit, " Sam shoots back, " I definitely have more than five. "

" Babe, I think you're supposed to be arguing over him having more than you, " Jess points out, Dean laughing.

" At least your girlfriend's smart. "

" Shut up. " Sam looks about to say something else, but decides against it. " So, I brought Jess to that gallery today. " It's a casual statement, not out of the ordinary of what one should speak to another, but Dean knows Sam, knows it's intentionally casual -- which makes him wary. He takes takes a seat, angling his body so he's not turned completely away from his brother, not bothering with baiting the younger man.

Turns out, Sam doesn't need bait to bite -- huh, Dean thinks idly, must be a family trait.

" Castiel was there. " This time, Dean doesn't need to know his brother to pick up on how intentionally the words have been places, dangling in the air with a purpose behind them. The fact that Sam's watching him closely, and he can feel Jessica's gaze out of the corner of his own eye, doesn't do anything but make him notice the shift in the room, even more, ignoring the urge to correction Sam -- it's _Cas_ , you dummy.

" Makes sense, " Dean responds, quirking an eyebrow, " He does work there, you know. " Sam ignores the sarcasm in his tone, and continues.

" He asked about you, you know. "

" So ?"

" Mentioned you'd already seen the new exhibit … " Dean lets his brother trail off, knowing that Sam's going to continue to make a psuedo-point, regardless of whether or not Dean wants him to -- the answer is always no, Dean does not want it. But, while he can't stop it, Dean sure as hell isn't going to actively draw Sam into this. Jess, on the other hand, knows the brothers well enough to catch on, if her eye roll means anything.

" Mentioned you _specifically_ , " she points out. Sam nods, raising an eyebrow at his brother.

" Thought you weren't into the art stuff, " he asks, in that annoyingly cocky, I-know-something-you-don't-know, or even, I-know-something-you-don't-want-me-to voice. Point blank, he sounds about five years old, and Dean snorts.

" I'm not. "

" So why is it you've taken an interest ?"

Dean bristles, finally looking up to meet Sam's eyes. " Look, " he starts, staring pointedly at his brother, " I know what you're getting at -- I know where you're both getting at, " he adds, turning to Jess, " so stop. It's not what you think at all. "

" So you like art now ?" Sam asks, smugly.

" No. "

" Or is it just a certain gallery ?"

" No. "

" Or a certain guy who works in the gallery ?"

" No. "

" It's okay, Dean, I'm comfortable in my relationship enough to admit that he's a piece of art himself, " Jessica jokes, waggling her eyebrows. Dean doesn't catch it though, he's too busy trying to ignore the two of them at the same time, while still appearing aloof enough not to be actively ignoring him. It's much more difficult to do than one would assume, especially when the subjects he's trying to ignore are right in front of him, one of them with a particularly impressive bitchface.

Unfortunately, that one doesn't happen to be the only one in the room with a vagina -- though the verdict, Dean argues, is still out on Sam, and that's territory he's not even going to try stepping in. Not after the incredibly-graphic description Jess had given last time, causing both Winchester men to escape the room.

Nevertheless, neither Sam nor Jessica seem really keen on dropping the subject, so Dean's _certainly_ not going to state that he's seen the guy outside of the shop. He's not suicidal.

Not today, at least.

Fortunately, Dean manages to make it to the end of the night without accidentally losing it, and offing himself, or his brother. Jessica, bless her soul, is saved solely due to Dean's absolute adoration for her, and she's the one who'd picked out a pie, in the midst of all of Sam's organic-no-preservative-too-colourful food choices. The pie is a delicious, an almond-infused, flaky crust, delicious apple-and-blackberry filling, and Dean makes it through three pieces before Sam and Jess announce they have to leave, if they want to catch the train back down to Palo Alto.

" You know you guys are welcome to stay, " Dean mentions, again, through a mouthful of pie. Sam makes a face, Dean doesn't wipe the filling from the corner of his lips, Jess chuckles at the familiarity of it all. They decline, Dean doesn't press it ( his apartment doesn't exactly come with a furnished guest room, and, though Sam practically has a degree in crashing on Dean's couch, it's understandable that, as a couple, they'd rather sleep in an actual bed. Dean waggles his eyebrows and makes a few choice jokes at this, Jess is amused, Sam isn't ), and but he still chooses to walk them to the bus stop.

" We'll text when we get home, " Jess assures him, before Dean has the chance to say anything. He gives her a grateful look, one that quickly vanishes when she adds, " And you know, on the subject of texting, you should go talk to Castiel. "

Dean actually does roll his eyes this time, but pulls Jess in for a hug regardless. " This isn't the third grade, Jess. I can talk to the dude and not run around tryin'a woo him or anything. " From beside them, Sam snorts.

" I didn't know that's what the third grade was for. "

" That's 'cause you were never good at it. "

" Yet he got me in the end, " Jess interrupts, laughing and stepping back, where Sam slips an arm around her waist on instinct. It makes Dean smile -- seeing his little brother like this, stable with someone else, comfortable -- and his features soften, before he chuckles and shakes his head at the two of them.

" I'm just saying, " Sam says, raising an eyebrow knowingly at Dean, " What've you got to lose ?"

" Yeah, " Jess adds, grinning, " Plus, we could double date. " She winks at the grimace on Dean's face, laughing and leaning more into Sam. " You're a catch, Dean, " she adds, voice a bit softer, " You just don't realize it. "

He winks back at this, a wolfish smirk on his lips, replying with, " Oh, I realize it, " before he takes a step back, catching sight of the 47-bus, about a block away. " I'll see you guys later, " he calls out, shoving his hands into his pockets and turning heel. Dean makes the walk back to his apartment quickly, and falls asleep rewatching some Die Hard spinoff film, that's really quite horrible.

* * *

Two nights later, Dean's retracing the same steps towards the bus station, and gets on when it pulls up in front of him. He doesn't look at anyone, doesn't speak to anyone, just keeps his eyes on the floor. His hands are deep in the pockets of the jacket he's wearing ( not his leather one ), and he doesn't move for the eleven stops, until he catches sight of the Mediterranean diner, the one that stays up past three, if you know to get in through the back door. He reaches up, tugs twice on the string that circles the inside of the bus, and gets up. Nobody follows him; he slips through the doors and makes his way down the street, disappeared by the time the bus pulls away.

He's nobody when he walks up to the nightclub, and bypasses the bouncer outside. Nobody, with his eyes averting everyone, and a quick three knocks, silence, two, silence, kick, and minute pause, exactly, on the side door. He used to count, the full sixty seconds, but doesn't anymore. It opens, right on the dot, and Dean quietly makes his way through two rooms, until he's enveloped in back.

There's a lamp on the ceiling, the stereotypical, hanging lightbulb, flickering in order to cast angry shadows in the movement below. Light enough for sweat to glisten on muscle, dark enough for the forming bruises to still be invisible.

It makes Dean grin.

He's still a nobody here. A nobody as he leans against a wall, next to another stranger, who doesn't acknowledge his presence. A nobody, when he decides he's here for a reason, and peels off his shirt, kicks off his shoes. He has nothing important in his pockets, so he leaves them against the wall -- there aren't much people here, anyway, and he's already punched out most faces present. This isn't one of the True Nights; this is just something to pass the time, for the nobodies.

He's a nobody when he gets to the middle of the room, and lets the other man take the first hit. The word repeats itself in Dean's mind, through every hit, it reverberates through the very core of his being, shattering his ribs, driving behind the pump of his blood, echoing until he can feel it with every pull of muscle, every crash of his fist.

 _Nobody, nobody, nobody, you're just a nobody_ , it says, when he lets his body dip enough to get leverage, and drives an elbow into the meat of the other man's shoulder, _They're so happy, and you're still nobody._

 _They can all leave, live their lives, and you can't_ , it taunts, when he's gripping tightly at muscle -- he's not sure what it is at this point, maybe a forearm, a bicep, a leg, definitely not a neck -- and trying to force a weight away from him, _They don't care as much as they did, but that's not the worst part, and you know it._

 _The worst part, oh, it's not even that you're a worthless,_ it adds, when his teeth grind down on each other, and the movements get more wild, more frantic. He's not focusing anymore, watching as light shifts and darkness enters,  _hearing_ his body making collisions, with the other man, with the ground, with itself.

 _The worst part is that you're **angry** , because he's happy._ It cackles, and Dean's never thought his voice to be menacing, until now. Every time, it's until now.

 _Because she's happy_. He hearts a shout in the background, can't tell if it's reinforcement or in protest. He can't find it in himself to wonder.

 _You're angry at them, for leaving you behind._ He's trying to fight back, but can't catch his breath enough. His lungs are howling, desperate for the oxygen in his shaky gasps, but it's still not enough, damp and sodden with the heavy weight of sweat and blood, of potential and washing it cast off, too quick to catch.

Not that he could try.

 _Nobody wants to bring poor Dean Winchester along,_ the voice is singing now, and Dean tries to lift his arms, but they're being held down. He can't tell if it's by the weight of another person, or of the air. In his mind. He's afraid it might be both.

He can't escape, and he knows it.

 _It's no point, Deano,_ it tells him, and he feels pressure on his chest, he gasps and scrambles for sliver of sanity, the edges of his mind already going numb.  _You'll always be angry, and you'll always be angry as them. As long as they're something you're not._

_As long as they're happy._

_You're a nobody, and you don't deserve what they have._

When Dean comes to, he's being pulled away, his body bloody and tattered, hands ripped, knees buckling.

Dean spits out a mouthful of blood a block away from the bus stop, keeps his gaze down the entire ride back. He's standing, wary that, if he sits, he won't be able to heave himself back up. It's late, nearing one in the morning, and nobody pays him a second glance as he hobbles out of the bus, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.

He gets home, and falls asleep on the couch before he even has the chance to turn on the tv.

He wakes up three hours later, and makes it to the bathroom in his half-sleepy state, quickly enough to start throwing up before he starts waking up, and is hit full-force by the aches and groans of his body.

Dean kills an hour sitting in the bathroom, not wanting to move.

He falls asleep on the cold, tiled floor, using a towel as a pillow, with a pamphlet advertising an art gallery in downtown San Francisco, gripped in his hand.

* * *

" Are you alright ?"

The voice startles him, three days later. It takes him a couple of beats to realize where he is, leaning against the center display wall inside of the art gallery, staring at something that looks like Spring exploded within a canvas. He turns towards the noise to be, unsurprisingly, met with a frown line and a pair of brilliantly blue eyes. The surprise comes with the hint of worry Dean's able to detect, aimed towards him.

He coughs a few times, to clear his throat. An excuse, tiredness, 'this-is-my-face', an entire speech dedicated to his pensive interpretation of the work of art before him, all flash in his mind, but Dean brushes them off and shrugs instead. " Yeah, guess I zoned out. " Cas allows the frown to relax, but Dean notices that the worry hasn't truly dissipated. He frowns at this, attempting to lighten the mood: " Was it really that obvious ?"

It works, with the edges of Castiel's lips tugging for a grin. " I simply assumed -- you've been staring at flowers for the past ten minutes, and, though _I_ find the linework absolutely incredible, I don't particularly believe you're drawn to such things. So, what was it you'd said ?" His tone is even, the same as it always in, but Dean catches the increasingly-prominent twitch of his lips, and lets himself bark out a laugh.

" If I wanted to look at flowers, I'd look at 'em. Or take a picture. Why draw something you can see for yourself ?" he answers, repeating his same argument he'd made last time, when this had been brought up.

" I believe there are many who'd be inclined to argue that point, " Castiel comments, making Dean roll his eyes.

" Well then, I guess you caught me on the whole, zoning out thing. " There's a pause, one that Dean would call awkward, if only because he feels Castiel should say something, and doesn't. But it's something he's come to notice about the other man -- he's not exactly one for idle chit chatter. Dean hasn't decided if it's honestly refreshing, or frustratingly anxiety-triggering, that everything he says seems to have a point. His bet, currently, is on the latter, when Castiel makes a move to step back, probably go back to organizing a few more files, or whatever it is he does in his work. Dean's not quite sure yet. However, a glance at the clock tells him that it's nearing five PM, and Dean speaks before he can help himself.

" Speaking of which, I should probably go get some coffee or something, so I don't zone out on my way home. " Cas nods at this, but doesn't stop his motion to leave, so the Winchester continues, " D'you wanna come along ? I mean, " he adds, jerking his head towards the food display with a bit of a grin, " This stuff's crap, and you don't even have  _tea_. You must be scandalized. "

This draws a chuckle out of Castiel, who pauses for a few breaths, and Dean's almost positive he's about to both decline, then eye him with a wary look, possibly avoid him should Dean ever re-enter. He's got his, Man-I'm-Not-Asking-You-Out-It's-Just-Coffee speech ready, which, really, Dean hasn't had to use that one in a few years, when Castiel glances at the clock once more, then responds, " I could go for a cup of tea. Do you mind waiting a few minutes, I've just got to clean up. " Dean nods, and Castiel hesitates before he turns around, does a double take, and looks over at Dean. " Though, " the way he mouths his words, as if carefully chosen, lead Dean to believe they're just that -- being thought upon, considered, even. The idea makes his lips twitch into a grin, an eager flicker of interest on message from his brain, " I suppose I could get someone else to do it -- it's their job, after all... Give me two minutes. " 

Dean grins at this, caught only for a split second by Castiel, before the latter disappears into the backroom of the gallery. He shifts his weight, so that he's not so much blatantly leaning against a display anymore, and feels the creak of his limbs at the motion, his muscles groaning at him for the work. He's not necessarily in pain, not the way Dean Winchester describes pain, more rather a dull sort of numbness, that he can easily ignore. The guy from the other night -- he bristles at the reminder of it, in exhilaration, in defiance, in shame -- hadn't been particularly tough, so nothing lasting. Which is nice, considering that Dean would rather not end up in Urgent Care of some sort.

Precisely two minutes later, Castiel's making his way back up to Dean, leather-case in hand, beige trenchcoat billowing behind him.

" What's with the coat, Columbo ?" Dean jokes, smile faltering when Cas simply looks up at him, eyebrow furrowed once more. 

" Co... Lumbo ?"

Dean blinks thrice, Castiel, not even once.

" Are you... Man. You are so lucky you've got a great friend like me, who can explain to you four decades of brilliant television. " 

By the time they make it to a café ( Dean's careful to avoid heading towards Pamela's, and there's absolutely no way Dean's even considering touching a Starbucks with a ten-foot-pole ), Dean's moved past explaining why the show's basic episode outline is a welcome change, and has found himself in a conversation of character comparison, to Porfiry Petrovich -- which is territory he doesn't need to get into. 

" Basically, it's a great show, " he finishes, with an air of confidence that makes it anything but a lame conclusion, " And that's sayin' something, because I _hate_ detective-cop shows. "

" That's unfortunate, " Castiel comments idly, " They seem to be the only thing on television -- so an artist was telling me the other day. I don't watch much myself. "

Dean snorts. " Yeah, well it's all those damn cop shows, so you're not missing much. Really, I don't watch much of it either -- I did, when I was a kid, but mostly to fall asleep and stuff, y'know ?" 

If Castiel's expression tells him anything, it's that, no, he doesn't know, but Dean's not exactly jumping through hoops for the opportunity to explain. So he shrugs his shoulders, orders a large cup of coffee, snorts at Castiel's choice of tea ( " Man, is that actually a flavour, or are you just saying syllables ?"), and lounges down on the one pair of cushioned seats, in the corner. Castiel joins him without qualms, and the conversation moves smoothly into a few day-to-day basics, about San Francisco, events going on, nothing more than surface level, which Dean supposes might have something to do with how Castiel's eyes keep straying away from his face, and his expression changes every time -- a frown here, an intrigued head-tilt there, a serene sort of pensive look that somehow puts Dean at ease, so forth. After the seventh or so time Dean suspects Castiel isn't listening, he raises an eyebrow, shifting to force himself straight into Castiel's line of vision. 

" Hey, man, if you want to go or have plans or something, just say so -- I'm here for the coffee, you don't have to stick around. " 

The frown is back, for a split second before Castiel's shaking his head and averting his gaze, looking appropriately embarrassed. " No, it's not -- It's just that that piece over there, it's amazing. "

Dean turns over a shoulder to look, where a medium-sized canvas hangs on the wall. It's not the only one in the shop, considering that this is a small, locally-owned place, but a quick glance around the room tells Dean that this one is particularly good. Or, just really cool. He gives it an appreciative nod, turning back to Castiel to continue the conversation, and chuckles when he sees that the other man is still staring. 

" Man, you're around art all day -- I'd assume you see this sort of stuff all the time. " This gets Castiel's attention, with quick shake of the head and another frown. 

" You couldn't be more wrong, " he replies, and Dean has to fight the urge to get defensive _too_ quickly. " Artwork is all different -- even those, the things you say just look like photographs, so why bother. The point, the reason why people bother, is because it's pure creation -- one artist cannot replicate another, because everything is so uniquely personal, from the mannerisms, to the style, to even the subject or media. Even requested or commissioned work, you'd be hard-pressed to find an artist who doesn't put a single piece of him or herself into the work. So, no, it doesn't matter that I see these things every day -- that one is particular to itself, and that's the best part of it. " He fixes Dean with a hard look, not menacing, nor condescending, but simply relaying that this is his opinion, and Cas'll be damned if he's going to change is. Regardless, it makes Dean grin. 

" Woah there, this isn't some Dead Poet's Society, version art, " he jokes, glancing back at the painting, " Leave your art theory 101 at school, professor. I guess you have a point, " he adds as an afterthought. There's a part of Dean that feels almost bad, in a nonchalant, brushed-off manner, and he blames this part for his next words: " So what do you think the intention is behind that one ? What makes you like it, it's style ?, more than the others ? I mean, other than the fact that it's pretty kick ass. " 

What follows is a twenty-plus minute conversation, if one could call it a conversation, when it simply consists of Castiel getting more animated than Dean's seen him in the past few visits at the gallery. Cas doesn't speak with his hands very much, but when he does, it's wild and animated, his body relaxes, posture slipping from its usual rigidness, and the best part, in Dean's opinion, is the wild array of facial expressions that Cas manages to procure. For a guy whose face seems to be permanently set on stare confusedly, he's got some pretty good faces. 

Dean doesn't doubt for a second, that their conversation would've continued longer, what with the enthusiasm behind Castiel's words, the push behind his eyes, but they're momentarily interrupted when a hand clamps down on his shoulder, the eyes of Officer Jody Mills bearing down on him. 

" Winchester, nice to see you here, " she greets, turning to introduce herself to Castiel. He returns the greeting, but Dean can't help but notice how he's gone stiff and formal again, not the eager-to-speak man who'd been leaning, his elbows on his knees, a minute earlier. For some reason, he can't help but to frown. 

The three chat briefly, Castiel introducing the gallery to the officer, before Jody hears her order called, and turns to Dean. 

" Hey, I have a favour to ask you, " he nods, frowning slightly as she continues, " I'm gonna need you to stop by the station tomorrow -- I got a new one for you, and I think you'd be the best to speak to him before someone else does. He'll be here tomorrow at eight, if you're free. " 

Dean nods quickly, assuring her he'll be there, and she leaves with a wave. He draws his attention back to Cas, who's looking at him with another frown, and shrugs. Castiel seems to take a sort of hint, yet glances at the clock on the far side of the café before he can do anything. Dean follows his gaze, and groans under his breath. 

" I was thinking the same, " Cas jokes, though it's barely noticed underneath the weariness of his gaze. Dean nods, reaching over to grab the long-empty cup of coffee, his keys, and phone, which he'd all set on the small table. 

" Yeah, I should probably start heading home. Get dinner and stuff. " 

" I as well. I'm supposed to be meeting my sister for dinner in an hour, and have to change... " 

Dean sends him a sympathetic glance, grabbing Cas's own empty cup and moving to throw them both away. When he gets back to their seats, Cas is gone, though a quick glance of the café finds Dean's eyes landing on a beige-back, and a head of messy hair. He could leave, it's not like he and Cas are going to the same place or anything, and the other man seems to have all his stuff with him, but there's something that makes Dean stay. 

He blames it on curiosity. 

It doesn't take long for Castiel to make his way back to him, looking slightly surprised. " You didn't have to wait, if you had something to do, " he apologizes, the two exiting the shop, " I went to go ask the barista about the artist. He's apparently local; I'm going to try to see if I can get a few pieces of his work shown in the gallery -- why are you looking at me like that ?" But Dean's already laughing, head thrown back before he shakes it, grinning crookedly at Cas and nudging him with an elbow. 

" Man, you can't even go get a cup of coffee without stalking some artist, you're such an art geek. " But it's said with a light, teasing tone, one Dean usually reserves for Sam, and Cas doesn't seem insulted. Amused, more like. 

It's a nice look on him. 

* * *

Castiel asks about it, halfway down the block. Dean can tell it's on his mind, and he's never really been one to bring up something, if he doesn't want to talk about it.

But Castiel asks, with a hesitance in his words, and Dean keeps his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. 

" What did Officer Mills mean ? About, having a kid for you -- do you work at the police department ?" 

Dean entertains the notion of him being a police officer for about three seconds, before he bursts out laughing, much to Castiel's confusion. When he manages to regain his breath, Castiel looks ready to apologize, but Dean waves him off before the words can hang in the air. " I don't work for them, no. Look, I'm going to tell you, " he eyes Castiel warningly, " but you're going to have to promise not to think of my any different. I mean, I know we barely know each other or whatever, but you can't judge me for anything that's gonna come out of my mouth. Is that understood ?" 

Castiel doesn't hesitate to agree, but Dean can see that he's confused, intrigued, maybe treading on the wrong side of curious. Nevertheless, it's too late to back out of the conversation ( though, Dean wouldn't put it past himself ), so he continues : 

" It's sort of a long story, but I help around there. I... There's a lot of kids, y'know, get themselves in trouble, a _lot_ of trouble, and they don't really get their shit sorted. Y'know, they can't ever really get out of it, because it's not like there's a ton of resources -- okay, I mean, there are, but if a kid doesn't click, then they don't click. So I give 'em something to do. Teach 'em a little about cars, give them homework, try to set them straight before they can get off the deep-end too much, y'know ?" He shrugs, keeping his gaze averted, and adds, " Not for everyone, of course. Just some, if the psych down there or the officers think I'll have a chance. It's just a sort of, community service thing. " 

" Oh ?" Dean feels Castiel's gaze on him. He feels the question prying, the air of confusion, but doesn't bite, and Castiel doesn't bait. 

So Dean tells him, instead, about some of the kids. About the boy who was just trying to get a girl back, and was never really a threat in the first place -- his intentions were always in the right spot. The boy who'd done it all, who'd lied and stolen to protect his little sister -- Dean could relate to this one, he taught the kid every part of an engine, and how to quick fix things like a transmission, or how to correctly check if an engine is rewired correctly without risking any parts in short circuiting. He'd taught the kid, until he went off the deep end at sixteen, when his aunt and uncle had only taken _her_ in, and Dean didn't know how to make him understand that it wasn't Him Against The World. And then, of course, Jo. She'd finally been caught as a teenager, with a record of petty theft and general misdemeanors, fights out in the public, being places she wasn't supposed to be, then facing actual jail time when she was stopped for suspected domestic abuse on a boyfriend's part, but turns out, Jo could hold her own. Also turns out, there was a bottle of six hundred and fifty dollar absinthe involved, and the cops soon found the rest -- also stolen. Dean had taken to Jo in an instant, and, between her tendency to bite back as hard as the world did her, and her easy-going, albeit intention-driven personality, Dean considered her as much a younger sibling as Jess. More, even. 

Dean likes Jo, he tells Cas this. She's his favourite. He makes Cas promise that, one of these days, they'll grab some actual food, and visit Jo where she now lives with her newly-re-acquainted mother, Ellen. 

Cas's eyes brighten, the then-somber expression lightening up at the prospect, and agrees without qualm. He then asks the question, that's been itching at the back of his mind throughout this conversation, almost forgotten with how _involved_ and _interested_ Cas has found himself being. 

" Dean. Why did you ask me not to judge you ? That sounds gives the conversation a negative pre-imposition, and it wasn't necessary, whatsoever. " 

They're at the entrance of his building, having had gotten lost in the conversation, to the point where Castiel hadn't noticed this man was walking him home, until it was too far in to say a word. His hand's on the door, and he's about to walk in -- the prospect of escape at the answer, or a shameful retreat at how unbecoming the question was at the first place, is the only thing that pushes him to ask it. 

Dean is silent for a few seconds, and Castiel's set to go through with Plan B ( see : shameful retreat ), when he shrugs, almost nonchalantly, and raises his gaze to meet Castiel's. His eyes are firm, defending the truth in his response, but there's a bittersweet mist fogging up the colour. The truth hurts, but it's got to be said. 

" 'Cause I thought that, maybe, if you heard what I was saying, you'd think I was a good person. And I couldn't have that sort of pre-imposition. " 

There's a quirk at the corner of his lips, that's anything but gentle, and Dean's flashing him two fingers with a parting response, down the street before Castiel realizes he'd made a move to step away from the door.


End file.
